Ashe felt empty. Not the way he had when his parents died. Not grief, not sorrow. This was different. Like his emotions had been dragged across plaster until they were only a dull smear, too thin to feel.

  He curled on the kitchen floor with his knees tucked under his chin and let the cold stone bite through his clothes. The necklace around his throat hummed, faint but constant.

  The weapon in his hands felt heavier than it should have, metal cold against his palm. He did not let himself flinch away from the memory. He forced it through in pieces, like counting bruises you cannot see. Sand. Screams. Thuds. Names cut short. The pulse kept time, stamping each moment into place until it stopped feeling like a nightmare and started feeling like a fact.

  When it was done, the humming eased, settling deeper behind his ribs. Ashe drew in a careful breath. It came easier than it should have. He planted his walking stick and felt the familiar balance of it, the pull of his sword at his side. Then he pushed himself up. His legs still shook and his mind still felt raw, but the fog was gone. Not comfort. Not peace. Clarity. He knew what he had to do, and he knew he had a week to do it.

  Ashe raised a trembling hand to the ring around his neck, the humming still there under his skin. He flinched the moment his fingers touched it.

  Where his throat had once been smooth, there were now small scars, raised bumps spaced evenly in a perfect circle. Like beads on a necklace. Each one throbbed with its own faint vibration.

  He counted them with the pad of his thumb.

  One. Two. Three.

  Ten.

  Ten marks, ten pulses, ten separate hums. One for each herald who had died in the sand.

  He tried to swallow. The dryness in his throat was like a desert. All he managed was a rough, broken groan.

  He let his hand fall from his neck and gripped his walking stick tighter as he headed for the exit. He needed fresh air. He needed somewhere he could let the sounds of the world wash over him, drown out the screaming in his head.

  The headquarters was abnormally quiet. The clatter of boots was gone. The low hum of voices that usually carried through the hallways was nowhere to be found. Ashe let the memory of his arrival guide him, feet moving on instinct toward the entrance.

  When he reached the doors, a wall of air hit him. Sweat and heat, heavy and humid, thick enough to taste. He stopped for a second, stalling, then pushed on. He did not want to go back. He did not care that his things were still inside.

  His legs carried more strength than they should have. He took a step and misjudged it. His feet left the ground, and for a heartbeat he was weightless, hurtling forward. Then his shoulder made contact with the stone floor. His walking stick clattered away across the floor.

  He braced for pain.

  It never came. Only a dull impact, distant and muted, like his body belonged to someone else.

  He rolled onto his side, reaching for the stick, and his hand slid over broken tile. The stone was cracked and buckled. Sections of the floor had caved in, as if something had struck it hard enough to punch through.

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  Ashe went still and let his mind catch up.

  He did not know what was happening, but he had an idea, and it was not good.

  A voice reached him. “Ashe. What happened? Where are the others? We have been looking for you guys.”

  Danny.

  The sound of his voice hit Ashe like a hook. The cadence, the concern, the way he said Ashe’s name. It pulled at something in Ashe’s head, something old and familiar.

  The cracked tiles were still cold beneath Ashe’s palms, but his mind slipped sideways anyway. Rubber mats pressed under his hand instead. The sour bite of sweat filled the air. The slap of bare feet and the sharp exhale of sparring echoed around him. The hallway thinned until it felt far away, like it was happening on the other side of a wall.

  Ashe tried to move. Tried to speak. Anything. His body did not respond. His limbs did not listen, as if his nerves had been unplugged.

  Then the memory moved without him.

  Not with his permission.

  His arm lifted. His shoulders straightened. He rose with a smoothness he did not recognize, because it was not now. It was then. Ashe screamed inside his own skull, trapped behind his eyes, forced to watch the past play out in perfect detail.

  His lips moved.

  The voice that answered was not his.

  Annabelle’s voice was light and soft, like nothing had ever been wrong. “Hey, Danny. How is it looking today?”

  Danny answered, concern tightening his words. “It’s fine. I’m just worried we’re missing something. The scoreboards have been acting strangely. There’s a gap, like a name is trying to register and cannot. Every time it flickers, the location ping is the same.”

  He swallowed. “Australia. Victoria, near Melbourne. I think there might be another herald out there, someone we haven’t found yet.”

  Then Danny’s voice faded. The smell of sweat and the clatter of feet on plastic mats thinned out with it, draining away until the broken tiles beneath Ashe’s hands became the only real thing again. Danny’s breathing grew louder. Closer. Ashe could hear him speaking, but the words would not resolve, like his mind was still half a step behind.

  A hand settled on Ashe’s shoulder and shoved everything back into place, back into the hallway. The heat of Danny’s breath pressed against the side of Ashe’s head, warm and too close.

  “What the hell is wrong?” Danny demanded. Concern heavy in his words.

  Ashe shook his head and pushed himself upright. He did not want to explain. He did not have the energy to relive it.

  He knocked Danny’s hand off his shoulder.

  Too hard.

  Air gusted past his fingers. Danny let out a startled gasp as his body lurched sideways, stumbling under the shove. Ashe’s stomach tightened. He should have reached for him. Should have asked if he was okay.

  He did not.

  He turned and stepped outside, leaving the headquarters behind. Leaving the memories where they needed to stay. Locked away.

  The world outside was quiet. The soft breeze had not changed. It did not care about his pain. It did not slow down just because he was hurting.

  Ashe walked toward the sound of traffic, toward the steady hiss of tires on asphalt and the distant growl of engines. A world that existed beyond the headquarters.

  At the edge of the road, he lifted his thumb. He needed a ride.

  At first, no one stopped. Cars passed in waves, their air tugging at his clothes as they went by. Then, like always, someone noticed. A change in the way an engine lingered. A hesitation. People were kinder once they realized he was blind.

  He heard a car slow, brakes whispering, the rush of air shifting as it pulled in close. Ashe reached out carefully, found the door handle, and closed his fingers around it.

  The metal bent.

  A soft screech shivered under his grip, thin and ugly.

  Ashe froze, hand still clamped on the handle, suddenly aware of just how much strength he was carrying.